IN these words the prophet Isaiah describes the sinfulness of all mankind. This is a subject which human nature, when unchanged and untouched by the grace of God, would more willingly keep out of mind than steadily and fixedly contemplate. This fact, however, only serves to prove still more its truth, and its unspeakable consequence. The consciousness of guilt is the cause which makes it to quail beneath, or turn away from, the Scripture account of this dreadful subject. But it cannot be put out of sight by any efforts of the strongest mind. It will, it must return, even if we could shut it out for a time. will find an entrance into the chamber of the sick and dying; its voice will be clear and loud in the solitude of death; and overpoweringly present, at least, on the day of judgment, when we come to stand before the presence of Christ. Why then should it be attempted to hide, to cover, or to extenuate that, the remembrance of which we can, by no possible efforts, put away? Why sho

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we attempt to persuade ourselves that we are not sinners, not sinners worthy of the utmost vengeance of God, when this will certainly appear with irresistible force of truth, before many years more can pass over us, perhaps before many months or days have flown away? Or perhaps we are tempted to treat this subject in another way very common in the world; I mean, to make an outward confession of sinfulness, to be willing to say that we are sinners; but to say it with that indifference and unconcern which proves that we do not feel it? This is perhaps the worst of all: a still greater sign of blindness of heart than an utter denial of guilt would be, and certainly a more discouraging appearance of hardness and apathy of conscience. Yet how commonly do we observe it; how often are we struck by the unconcern of men when they acknowledge the sinfulness of their condition! Where is the solemnity and awfulness of feeling that should accompany the admission of so dreadful a truth as this? Where is the evidence of true and godly sorrow for such an unspeakable weight of misery? Where is the shame that ought to cover us when we acknowledge before the Most High that we are rebels against His Divine Majesty? No! carelessness on this point must convict the professor of unbelief: it shows that he confesses with his lips, but that his heart is far from following them. He is only deceiving himself and others by an hypocrisy which utters a confession not really proceeding from spiritual conviction. No man can be said to understand that he is a sinner, unless he feels the real nature of sin in such a manner as to mourn over it with genuine contrition and shame. His contrition may be much less than he feels it ought to be, and this will be the case with every humble Christian; but there must be sorrow and mourning, or else he does not rightly believe, isnot really convinced of sin. Those who can confess it carelessly, only confess in truth their complete ignorance of the thing they are affirming. It is a solemn and a dreadful thing to be a sinner; not one that can be lightly admitted, and then put out of mind. Let us confess it, my brethren, and be ready always to do so, as out of the deep conviction God has given us of it; but let it be

with a feeling of the deepest awe and the most painful remorse, as if we were pronouncing the sentence of our own death; for it is something worse than death, our fall from innocence, our loss of the moral image of God. The simple and most affecting language of the general confessions of the Church, in all her services, ought truly to touch us with a feeling of the deepest seriousness; we ought not to be able to repeat it with the indifference of a common subject; we ought not to be able to hear it employed by the minister, as he offers it up for and with the people, without some genuine impression of penitence and shame. Ought it not to rouse us into earnestness, and cast every one of us on our knees before God? Infinitely too solemn it is for the enlightened Christian to treat it as unconcernedly as the world may do; he cannot sit, with unmoved and careless manner and attitude, at the offering of such prayers as these; his heart moves and feels in harmony with them; he bows his knees before the God and Father of the Lord Jesus Christ, and feels smitten at heart as he exclaims, "We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep; but thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders!"

E.

LAURA BRIDGMAN.

SIR,-I think the following account of a poor child, deprived of four out of five of its bodily senses, will be interesting to your readers. It may be also useful as a proof of the independent existence of the soul, showing how full it may be of energy and intelligence, while, from a diseased state of body, it is cut off from all interchange of ideas with its fellow men.

I am, Sir, your obedient humble servant,

LAURA BRIDGMAN is an American child, and was born on the 21st of December, 1829. When an infant she was subject to severe fits, which ended in a violent fever, depriving her both of sight and hearing. The fever raged for seven weeks; but for five months Laura was

confined to her bed in a darkened room; it was a year before she could walk alone, and two years before she could sit up the whole day. Her sense of smell was almost entirely destroyed, and her taste much blunted. It was not till she was four years old, that this poor child recovered her bodily health. Her mind, however, thanks to a gracious Providence, was still, as far as could be known, uninjured; but every communication with the world seemed cut off. She could neither see, nor hear, nor speak, nor smell. As soon as she could walk, she began to explore first the room, and then the house, feeling every thing within her reach, and examining it as far as she could by that one sense of touch. She followed her mother, while occupied in household business, and being very much disposed to imitation, she in this way learnt to sew a little and to knit.

Let us pause here and compare the blessings granted to us as children, with the state of this poor girl, and let us ask ourselves if we have duly improved the gifts of sight, of hearing, of speech, of tasting? Has the possession of these faculties proved a blessing to us? Have we been thankful for the enjoyment of them, and have we given thanks and praises to the good God, who endued us with them? Or, have we not rather considered them as the common blessings of life, something that of right belonged to us as men, and not troubled our heads further about them? Suppose that poor Laura Bridgman had regained the use of her eyes, through the means of any one of us, should we not have thought that we had some claim to her future love and service, if we desired it? Yet, what is the restoration of one sense, compared with the gift of all? a gift granted as soon as needed, and continued to our lives' end! Surely we have something to be thankful for! Surely God has some claim to our duty and service!

When Laura was eight years old, a gentleman heard of her sad condition, and exerted himself very kindly to place her in an institution for the blind at Boston. Great pains were here taken with her; but it was a far more difficult case than that of a child only blind, and if the gentleman at the head of the institution had not been

very zealous and persevering, Laura would have learned very little. The first object was to teach her to read, in order that she might learn to speak with her fingers. This was done by placing different articles in her hands with labels on them, on which labels the names of the articles were printed in raised letters; for instance, they gave Laura a spoon, and made her feel on the spoon the raised letters spoon. After she had examined this, they gave her a key with the raised letters key pasted on it. Afterwards small labels with the same words not fastened on the article were given to her, and she soon observed that they were similar to those pasted on the articles, and she showed that she observed this by placing the label spoon on the spoon, and the label key on the key. When she placed these labels right, she was patted on the head, as a sign of approbation and encouragement.

In this way Laura learned the names of all the articles in common use, which she could handle. After a while, instead of labels, the letters were given to her on separate bits of paper. They were arranged side by side, so as to spell book, key, &c. Then they were mixed up in a heap, and given to her to arrange them herself, so as to express the words book, key, &c., and she did so. Hitherto Laura appeared to have learnt all this without understanding the use of it. She had sat apparently astonished, and patiently imitating every thing her teacher did; but now the truth seemed to flash upon her, and she perceived that this was a way in which she could herself make a sign of any thing that was in her own mind, so as to bring it before the mind of another. Her countenance at once lighted up. A set of metal types was now procured, with the different letters of the alphabet cast on their ends, and a board, in which were square holes, in which holes Laura could fix what letters she chose, and in this way she could form any words she wished. Then, on any article being handed to her; for instance, a pencil or a watch, she would choose the several letters that spelt the words, and arrange them on her board, and read them by touch with apparent pleasure. She practised doing this for